


The Saddest Little Valentine

by Lady_Cleo



Category: The Pretender
Genre: F/M, Gen, Phone Call, Rated for Minor Language, Valentine's Day
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-08
Updated: 2014-03-08
Packaged: 2018-01-15 01:32:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 915
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1286194
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lady_Cleo/pseuds/Lady_Cleo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>that late night call on Valentine's Day from S2, "Gigolo Jarod"</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Saddest Little Valentine

She's been home for less than 5 minutes. She’s slipped out of her armor, and dropped the tailored jacket behind her, when the phone rings. Damn. And she’d really wanted a drink.

She answers with her customary “What?” daring as always the person on the end of the line to not waste her time, or bore her. It’s Jarod. Oh of course. _Perfect ending to a fucking miserable day._ Not the worst day of the year (that’s reserved for the anniversary of her mother’s death) but Valentine’s just always fell short for her, disappointing in ways no other holiday could. Halloween is still sort of her favorite (the chance to be someone else, if only for a night, is something that even appeals to children. And though she’d never admit it, it gives her a small insight into what Jarod must feel like when he slips under the skin of a new person, letting his imagination and wits take over and leave himself behind.) But Thanksgiving is boring, Christmas stifling, New Year’s lonely, and anything else just… she derails the train of thought with a dismissive wave of her hand.

However, Valentine’s Day, when the world is _supposed_ to be a damn Noah’s ark of pairs, when everything is painted and tainted with blood red and sugary pink and frothy white and I love you’s peppering the air and damn little chubby archers unleashing hell on unsuspecting asses? Oh, to the core of her, she hates it. Every 14th of February has been miserable and grinding and a raw annoyance to her nerves… except maybe one. When she was little, and a sweet little boy at her father’s work had made her a little Valentine, and she’d had one at the ready for him too. The frayed paper still resides in a box of photos and letters from her mother.

Her ears catch a sound in the background as he shifts, like a hand sliding over silk. Is he in bed with someone, a curled up bit of unimportance while he dials into his past? Or is he alone, not sitting up at a desk like he usually does, but propped up in some fantasy bed with satin and lace like a present?

His voice, pleading and a little sad, shakes her out of her musing. “How did we end up like this?” “Like what?” and she keeps her tone biting, cold, unattached. She is never attached.

“Alone… sad really, because we both want the same things.” She nearly spits out a drawled retort like _your head in a box?_ Or God forbid she ask the question that leaps to her lips: _you want me too?_ But she lets it go, in the spirit of the holiday and being too damn exhausted to fight.

His next question surprises her. "Do you ever think we’ll find that kind of love in our lives?" She wants to say yes, she wants to tell him she already has, she wants to know if he feels it too. But she can't. She won't. She doesn't.

"What do you want, Jared?" Her question is tired but tense, and her eyes close with the effort of keeping any true emotion out of her voice. She almost hears the sigh. Whatever he’d been planning to say- and damn if she hadn’t been just a little curious- is swallowed back, and he lets out a terse, “Just open the box.”

The buzz of the disconnected line is in her ear before she can blink, before the sentimental reply can spring from her lips. _Damn._ She presses the phone against her temple for a moment, leaching the last tendril of connection from the molded plastic, before she sets it back in the cradle.

The box she had only peripherally noticed (normally she could sense disturbance in her sanctuary like a Jedi with the Force) sits on the coffee table. Its wrapping is understated, just an elegant red patterned box, and plain white tissue studded with sedate grey hearts. It almost could have been for any occasion.

Taking a moment to swallow before her fingertips lift the paper open, she spots a single white conversation heart sitting perfectly in the center. She collects it gingerly, red polished fingertips skimming the red lettering asking one of the oldest questions on the day: Be My Valentine.

The part of her that rarely shuts down thinks it might have evidence about where he is or where he’s been, that maybe a microchip or something is concealed in the chalky sugar. The part of her that wondered what he was going to say simply places it against her lips a moment in a facsimile of a kiss, and slips it into her mouth.

The candy cracks beneath her teeth, and she wonders if that’s a metaphor. She’s expecting bland, tasteless bitterness to flood her tongue, just starting to wish he’d sent chocolate instead- when a pleasant raspberry flavor steals out from the melting treat. How had he done that? A new sugar, or some type of confectionary coating? And how had he remembered her fondness for raspberries: how they weren’t too light or too dark, just a perfect seedless red, blending sweet with a refreshing balancing tart.

She shouldn’t be surprised, it is Jarod after all (and he remembers _everything_ ), but the taste is enough to make her smile in the darkness and dream of him when she finally drifts off to sleep with his book beneath her pillow.

**Author's Note:**

> most of my favorite episodes come from S2, but the phone call where they talk about love and he leaves her a Valentine was incredibly sweet.  
> also the thought of Jarod writing a romance novel for Miss Parker always made me smile. (I'm working on that angle too.)  
> hope you like it.


End file.
